


Awake

by potentiality_26



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Blood Loss, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 18:34:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2398616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potentiality_26/pseuds/potentiality_26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“Here to kill me?” Greg croaked at Sherlock.  It was unlikely, with John present, but Greg had had a recurring dream of Sherlock hovering over him like this- except with an enormous knife in his hand- ever since he’d first met the detective.  Most of the time, he understood this nightmare to be a subconscious manifestation of his conviction that Sherlock Holmes would one day be the death of him- but on his most paranoid days he caught himself thinking it might in fact be a premonition of his murder.</em>
</p><p><em>Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Hardly.  Not after all the trouble John went through to save you.  Try not to scare him like that again.” </em>  </p><p>Greg wakes up in the hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awake

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [my hc_bingo](http://potentiality-26.livejournal.com/50135.html) square _blood loss_. Being that I know very little about the subject, I apologize for any inaccuracies- I was just kind of doing my own thing when I wrote this. Also, this isn't Brit-picked. Finally, I decided to go for a positive Mary depiction. Please don’t shoot me for it.

“I have never been more grateful for John Watson in my life.” That was Mycroft’s voice, wasn’t it? It seemed to be coming from a long distance away, and Greg tried to get closer to it, but he couldn’t seem to move. He couldn’t seem to do much of anything.

Everything hurt, Greg knew that much. There might have been one area in particular that hurt, but it was difficult to zero in on it. The pain, like Mycroft’s voice and most everything else, was fuzzy, distant, sort of like his senses were wrapped in cotton or down at the bottom of a well.

Greg supposed he was coming out of unconsciousness, because Mycroft was obviously finishing a thought rather than starting one. Greg considered. _What_ about John?

If he strained, Greg could vaguely remember John shouting- maybe at Sherlock, it was usually at Sherlock when John shouted- and then a lot of blackness.

What had John been so worried about?

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” Mycroft said, and Greg wondered if perhaps he was dreaming or if the laws of nature had been otherwise overridden. The earth travelled around the moon, gravity was an illusion, and Mycroft Holmes didn’t know something. “I don’t-” Mycroft made a soft choking sound and went quiet. Then, “If you can hear me- hang on. I have things to tell you. Please.”

That ‘please’ certainly seemed to defy natural law. It cracked in the middle, strange and stilted like the sound the hinges of an underused door made as it was opened. After a bit of straining, Greg detected fingers wrapped around his own, which was astonishing in and of itself. Greg needed to say something to Mycroft. Indeed, if he had ever needed to speak more fervently in his life he couldn’t call the incident to mind now- but he couldn’t seem to open his mouth.

He concentrated hard and managed to squeeze Mycroft’s hand. That turned out to be quite exhausting and everything went black before he noted any kind of response.  

*   *   *

The next time Greg woke up, he managed to open his eyes and promptly regretted it. Sherlock’s face, half in shadow, hung upside down above him like a specter of doom. Greg shut his eyes, hoping faintly that Sherlock would be gone when he opened them again, but he wasn’t. If Greg turned his gaze, he could even see John slumped in the chair near his beside. John’s face was propped up on his hand and he was sleeping- really very soundly by the looks of it.

“Here to kill me?” Greg croaked at Sherlock. It was unlikely, with John present, but Greg had had a recurring dream of Sherlock hovering over him like this- except with an enormous knife in his hand- ever since he’d first met the detective. Most of the time, he understood this nightmare to be a subconscious manifestation of his conviction that Sherlock Holmes would one day be the death of him- but on his most paranoid days he caught himself thinking it might in fact be a premonition of his murder.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Hardly. Not after all the trouble John went through to save you. Try not to scare him like that again.”

Greg didn’t snort, though it was a near thing. He didn’t remember much, but it was obvious that he’d gotten himself injured somehow, and- no offence to the good doctor- Greg meant to avoid any duplication of the experience more for his own sake than John’s. But Greg thought that, once upon a time, Sherlock wouldn’t have noticed if Greg lived or died except in how it directly affected his caseload- and if the only way he could process the idea that Greg’s death was to be avoided was in terms of how sad it would make John, Greg would take it.

“We’re here to protect you,” Sherlock added.

‘From who?’ was Greg’s first thought. Was whoever did this to him still out there? ‘We?’ was Greg’s second. John didn’t look like he was protecting anyone just now. Greg looked around some more and saw a figure, cast in shadow, leaning against the door. It was definitely a woman, and Greg saw a flash of pale hair and a gun. For a second, Greg was very sure it was Mrs. Watson, but he made himself dismiss the thought. Why would Mary have a gun and be guarding the door to his room? It was silly, and anyway she never looked so intent, so like a coiled spring, nor was she ever so quiet. The woman was likely some bodyguard sent by Mycroft, and why was another question still. All that looking around and the three words he had already spoken had tired him out, and he prioritized. “What… what happened?”

“You were stabbed,” Sherlock informed him, frowning as if there was nothing so pedestrian as letting oneself be harmed in such a fashion. “No major organs damaged- but if not for John you would likely have died of blood loss.”

That, at least, explained why he felt so weak. And possibly also, ‘I have never been more grateful for John Watson in my life.’ Or did it? Had Mycroft really said those words? Had he really been there at all? Greg took a risk. “Where’s your brother?”

“Mobilizing,” Sherlock said, darkly.

“What?”

“When the man who stabbed you and whoever he works for are… out of the picture, he will text me.”

Greg was very tired, and he considered how important the question ‘is Mycroft having someone killed over me right now?’ was to him. Just thinking about it warmed and chilled him at once, and Greg concluded that it was better not to know. If he knew, he would have to decide if it thrilled or horrified him- and he didn’t know what it would say about him if it was the former, or what it would say about the man he loved if it was the latter. Because Greg did love Mycroft. He had learned a long time ago that it was very difficult to lie to oneself in a hospital bed.

Sherlock’s mouth twisted like he knew what was in Greg’s head and for once very much wanted not to know. “I may have been wrong,” he told Greg. It was like it physically pained him to say the words.

“What?” was all Greg managed. Oh, to have had a recording device working just then! Oh, to have had John awake to witness the moment, at the very least!

“Don’t be obtuse,” Sherlock snapped. “Upon my return to London, I relayed to you the tell tale signs that you had… reached an arrangement of a sexual nature with my brother while I was… away. Signs that I need not tell you I have deleted and no longer recall.”

Greg remembered. What was more, he remembered the multitude of dire warnings that had followed Sherlock’s conclusion. They had come to him in a rather vulnerable moment like all of his most private fears given voice. What was between him and Mycroft had been new in the relative scheme of things, and he had sometimes- too often- wondered what in the world someone like Mycroft had wanted _him_ for beyond the convenience of it. But he also knew that there was nothing especially convenient about what was between them, and that Mycroft wasn’t as heartless as Sherlock liked to make him out to be. He had suspected as much the first time he got into Mycroft’s car and they hatched a plan to keep Sherlock out of trouble, and he’d known it absolutely the first time Sherlock detoxed and Mycroft was there through it all. He’d thought then that it would be nice to get to know Mycroft better, but he’d been married and Mycroft had started to pull away again almost the moment they started getting closer. For a while Mycroft had been nothing but a hint of a black car out of the corner of Greg’s eye or the click of sharp shoes on a hospital floor. So it was a surprise when Greg got in his car again and everything changed- but it wasn’t what Sherlock had implied. Just because things between them were unspoken didn’t mean they weren’t real. He knew that. He _knew_ it.

He just… forgot sometimes.

“I put the matter to him,” Sherlock continued- oblivious, for once. “Somewhat obliquely, I’ll admit, but he seemed to prove my assessment correct.”

“Assessment?”

“That you registered nowhere on his list of priorities.”         

Greg swallowed. He didn’t really believe that, but it wasn’t exactly wonderful to hear Sherlock say it. “Can we skip to the part where you were wrong?”

Sherlock bristled at that- of course he did- but he still gave Greg what he was asking for. “When you were injured- when you were bleeding all over John and getting loaded into the ambulance… I’ve never seen him like that.”

For a second, Greg just stared at Sherlock, who looked like he was gnawing at a problem that he couldn’t quite wrap his head around- a rare look for him indeed, and one Greg intended to memorize to call to mind on nights spent bent over paperwork in his office alone.

Stiffening, Sherlock looked away. “I could catalogue the details for you, of course.”

“Of course,” Greg agreed.

“But I think it will do you more good if I simply remind you that I have spent my life distressing Mycroft to varying degrees of extremity. If I have never seen him so afraid… it is saying something.” Sherlock looked extraordinarily uncomfortable, and he was giving Greg something that was clearly a lot for him. Greg was damn well going to appreciate it.

“Thank you,” Greg managed at last.

“That’s _all_?”

Greg didn’t know what else Sherlock expected him to say, but he considered the matter. “I think I’ll have a sleep,” he told Sherlock at last. The last thing he saw before he did just that was Sherlock rolling his eyes again.

*   *   *

“You’ll regret that nap you took as long you live, John Watson,” Greg heard Mary’s voice saying. “Sherlock admitted to being wrong.”

So it _was_ her, standing silently at the door like a bodyguard.

Greg didn’t know what to make of that, and drifting off again seemed entirely more pleasant than straining for a conclusion. He slipped back to sleep even as he heard John’s little groan of disbelief and disappointment, but it did make him smile.

*   *   *

The next time Greg woke up, Mycroft was in the chair John had previously occupied. He wasn’t sleeping- he was sitting very straight and elegant with his umbrella in his hand, gazing out Greg’s little window. “Hey you,” Greg said, to say something.

Mycroft’s eyes snapped to Greg in a way that reminded him of a heat-seeking missile locking on. It didn’t bother Greg; it was always intense to have all- or at least whatever fraction they saved for other members of the human race- of a Holmes’ attention focused on one, and Greg had experience with Mycroft in particular.

Greg tried to wave and failed. His fingers did move a little, though.

“I gather you woke before,” Mycroft remarked.

Remembering the things he had heard- or thought he’d heard- from Mycroft and rather hoping for a repeat, Greg said, “I don’t really remember.”

Mycroft’s brow quirked.

“I think Sherlock and I had a heart to heart,” Greg said. “I think it was rather alarming. Maybe I ‘deleted’ it all.” Greg would have done air quotes if he could move.

Mycroft looked amused and stood smoothly. “May I?” When Greg nodded, Mycroft stepped forward and perched on the side of his bed and ran light fingers down Greg’s arm. “How are you feeling?” he asked gently.

“Like I sprung a leak,” Greg said. He actually felt a little more like a popped balloon lying useless on the floor, but he thought this metaphor sounded less dire.

Mycroft’s eyes still flashed. He still looked- frankly- angrier than Greg had ever seen him for about two seconds, and then his impassive politician’s mask slid firmly into place. “Do not make light of what happened,” he said, and mask or no his voice shook faintly in the middle.

“I don’t really remember it.” This did distress Greg somewhat. If there had been a case, it had gone entirely out of his head and he wasn’t exactly proud of that.

“There was no case,” Mycroft said, gently. Had Greg spoken aloud? Did Mycroft just know what he was thinking?

“What, then?”

“It was a mugging. You and John went out and-”

“Somebody just stabbed me and nicked my wallet? Shame to lose that.”  Mycroft was looking at Greg like he thought he was focused on entirely the wrong thing. “You thought someone paid him to do it.” ‘Deletion’ or no, Greg remembered Sherlock saying something about the people the man had worked for.

“I was wrong.” Mycroft said.

“Wow,” Greg said. “Two Holmes ‘I was wrong’s in one day. I’m such a lucky boy.”

Mycroft raised a brow and eyed him curiously for a moment, but seemed to decide not to ask. “Well,” he said finally. “Sherlock and I do sometimes overcomplicate things, seeing conspiracies where in fact… It _was_ random, Greg. A… coincidence.” Mycroft said it like the dirtiest of words. “However, it did prove itself an excellent opportunity to make a statement.”

“You went on a rampage, didn’t you?” Mycroft’s version of a rampage obviously involved little more than a number of well-placed phone calls- a fact that, in its way, made him scarier, rather than the opposite- but maybe he’d loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves to do it. And yes- it was sort of hot to imagine it.

“I-”

“Ah,” Greg said, raising a finger to halt him. “Think carefully about how much I actually want to know.”

Mycroft slumped very slightly. “This was random. The next time won’t be.”

“And here’s me hoping there won’t be a next time.”

Mycroft’s eyes flashed again.

Greg managed to catch hold of his fingers. “Sorry,” he said. “I know I’m in a dangerous position. I wouldn’t be working for the Met if I wasn’t all right with the idea that this might all end in even more blood. I’m just saying, I’ll try not to… well, die. Sherlock doesn’t like me upsetting John. And- and I don’t like upsetting you.” Even though Mycroft clearly was upset, even though a part of Greg had known he would be, Greg still felt terribly presumptuous saying it like that.

“Upset,” Mycroft repeated softly. He was silent for a long moment, looking at their entwined fingers instead of Greg’s face. “We have hardly ever been seen together in public, and never at all in a… compromising fashion. You do not live with me or have any detectable ties to me beyond your work with my brother and yet-” Mycroft finally looked at Greg and his eyes were burning. “And yet I find that most everyone who matters already knows that it would kill me if anything happened to you because of our… association. If anything happened to you at all.”

Meeting Mycroft’s gaze, it was impossible not to believe him, and Greg’s mouth went dry. His gut also twisted unpleasantly. “If you’re thinking of breaking up with me because our ‘association’ puts me in danger, so help me, Mycroft Holmes-”

The other man looked away. “I would be lying if I said it had not occurred to me. You were so very pale. And there was so much blood. But- no. I have no intention of losing you in so a trite fashion. I have no intention of losing you at all.”

Greg cleared his throat awkwardly. “Uh. Good.”

“However, it also occurred to me that when I say that everyone who matters knows how I feel about you, you might possibly be the exception.”

“I-”

Mycroft raised Greg’s hand and kissed the knuckles, and Greg forgot what he’d been about to say. “I love you. I would like you to let me take care of you.”

Because this was Mycroft, there was more weight to second statement than the first one. And because Greg was perceptive, damn it- because he saw things Sherlock never could- he knew that it wasn’t because Mycroft preferred to have everything and everyone under his thumb- or, at least, not only because of that. Greg knew it broke Mycroft’s heart that Sherlock no longer trusted him to look after him and perhaps never had. He knew that if he said, ‘Yes,’ now, it would be about a lot more than Mycroft feeding him soup while he was on the mend. It would probably involve being given fancy suits and strange gifts and generally being treated like the boy toy of a man who was in fact several years his junior. It would mean that someone might die or at least get arrested the next time Greg got a paper cut. It wasn’t a ‘Yes’ to give lightly, but Greg felt he had to say _something_. “I don’t think they’re going to let me out for a while yet.”

“I can have a full medical staff at my home in a heartbeat. I would say that I could have John Watson if you prefer him, but my brother’s former flatmate tends to come with my brother, and also a wife, so I doubt it would make for a peaceful recovery.”

Greg thought about that. There had been something about Mrs. Watson that had puzzled him, but it didn’t seem to matter all that much anymore.

“They’ll give you to me,” Mycroft said.

“Huh,” Greg returned.

Mycroft’s grip on his hand tightened. “Let me take care of you,” he said again, more emotion than Greg had once thought him capable in his tone.

Greg had a feeling he was about to fall asleep again, but before he drifted off he said, “All right then.”


End file.
